The Mortal Coil
by Ari Rue
Summary: After Sebastian's contract with Ciel comes to its final conclusion and Grell takes the fall for Sebastian's debts, each must face the consequences of their actions, the good along with the bad; For no one escapes their mortal coil. SEQUEL TO COMMODITIES.
1. Chapter 1: The Flesh is Heir to

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or any of its lovely characters. I am not making any money off of this and have nothing but the highest respected and awe for its creator Yana Toboso.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the sequel to "Commodities". If you have not read it, this story may not make a lot of sense- as it references and builds upon previous events. If you haven't read "Commodities" I sincerely hope you will consider it. I think you will find it quite interesting.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: I FINALLY finished this first chapter. I am so sorry, everyone who has me on author alert and has been waiting for this. My Muse has been so terrible lately and life has just… gotten away from me. I hope you enjoy it and I look forward to your reviews. Your words feed my fickle little spark of creativity and I could not write what I do without your support!

The Mortal Coil: Chapter 1

Ciel awoke to the dark as he had every night since returning home. He tried to tell himself that anyway, that he had returned home. That he had come back to where he belonged. But it wasn't really home at all. His home was long gone, ashes on the wind, where only his bitter memories remained behind. He didn't know if this new place, this new 'home' would every truly be his. That was why he jarred awake each morning, hours before the cock crowed or sunlight painted the indigo sky pink, fading into the sweet azure of day.

He took a breath, closing his deep blue eyes in hopeful exhaustion. There was still time to fall back asleep and he was going to attempt to seize it, elusive as it was. The same routine had played out for months and just like every night previous, slumber was just barely out of reach. Perhaps it was because of the other thing which he felt lingered in the halls of his new home, something which everyone else assured him was not there at all; the distinct smell of fire.

The Earl could smell it in the walls, in the floor, hanging on every thread of his sheets and even in the fine fabric of his clothes. The char of burnt wood, acrid and heavy, seemed to haunt everything he touched. It was like he died in that fire and had been imbued with its cologne. Had he died then? No, he knew he hadn't. But it all seemed a little fuzzy in his mind.

He concluded to not dwell on it, thinking instead that he would call on the painters in the morning. It would be the third time since the mansion had been built. Construction had only ended four months previous. He wouldn't change the colors on the wall, just pay for another coat and hopefully banish the smell which troubled him. His keeper would not be pleased about this decision, but he knew she wouldn't fight with him over it. She was very accommodating when it came to his needs. Not like his butler had been, but in her way.

It seemed like mere moments had passed by the time sunlight streamed through narrow window framed far above the others. It was the only one without curtains to block the light and was the last to be struck by the golden rays of morning sun. A bird's window really, built as an amendment to the original design of the home to facilitate the quirks of its occupants. The architect had been very confused about it, among other things, as the boy overlooked the reconstruction of his home.

There had been other changes to the estate, most notably the shape of the structure itself. From the outside it appeared much as it had before, tall, imposing, and British. But beyond those walls was a series of halls and rooms which tucked around a center atrium, vaulted in clear glass and decorated with an amazing array of exotic plants. It was a gift, or perhaps a compromise, to the woman who had been kind enough to agree to stay with him, at least until he was ready to be on his own again.

It was an endeavor which was not close at hand. His uneasy sleep and subsequent fatigue sapped his strength one day at a time. It would be a year or perhaps even two, before he would feel comfortable without her. Despite that, he didn't crave her closeness as he had his butler, though she seemed to crave his. She was like mother, friend, servant and master to him, a strange mixture of power and help. But then, what else should he expect from the witch who saved his soul? The whole situation had been paradoxical to begin with.

Ciel pushed the covers back, groaning to himself as he realized yet again that sleep had abandoned him. From the angle of the sun, streaking across the golden brocade fleur-de-lis of his down comforter like errant paint, he knew it was well past nine. He should have been up nearly two hours ago, though the slimmest chance of sleep kept him in bed, eyes closed just in case.

Ciel dressed himself quietly, facing the antique mirror with a serious expression. As he looked at himself, He took stock for the hundredth time; his face was still round and boyish, limbs slender as the sapling branches of a willow, eyes (now both healthy and unmarked) large and expressive, rimmed with thick dark lashes. He hadn't changed a bit, not a single hint at growth or development. It was as if he was doomed to be short and look like a little boy forever. Somewhere in his mind, he could hear the witch explaining how the body only grew when it was asleep. Which meant his habit of waking up was more than mere annoyance. Perhaps there was some medicine he could take to stay asleep?

When Ciel reached the bottom button of his shirt he stopped, holding a long pointed shirt tail in one hand while a stubby one was gripped in the other. He looked at them in frustration, growling quietly before he started pulling the buttons apart once more. Every morning he mis-buttoned his shirt at least once, sometimes taking four and five tries to make it line up as it should. Annoyances like that made him miss his butler all the more.

* * *

The cavern walls reverberated with the low din of sound. Like the haunt of machinery, and endless growl of despair multiplying as the waves bounced around the alcoves with conviction. It was a singular symphony of noise, and for those unfortunate enough to find themselves within the maw of the great cave, a cacophony of insanity.

Minimal light snaked along the ground as volcanic cracks, dotted with hissing geysers or sulphurous steam. The light shivered and shook in time with the noise, flickering with menace against the base of the jagged walls.

A figure sat amongst the alcoves, seemingly unconscious against his barbarous surroundings. He was dressed in what was once a finely appointed white suit, now torn and stained almost beyond recognition. Though it was not odd for individuals of high status to find themselves in the bowels of Hell, there was one quality which gave reason for pause. Two bloody stumps situated over his shoulder blades, gory remembrance of the life he had lost. This was no ordinary human. His fall had been from a much higher plane.

Now he hung like a macabre marionette, arms fastened by heavy chains to the wall above him. His silver hair hung about his face like a ragged veil. If he was thinking anything, if he even felt anything, there was no hint. As the firelight danced about him, coloring his pallor in the rumbling sunset hues of the crag, he remained limp in his bonds.

Barely discernible in the depths, a shadow came over him, watching with candid interest. It stood for some time, as if waiting for the fallen to make the first move. The game would be set in motion one way or the other, but the looming darkness knew it was customary for white to take to the board first.

When he did not, the black knight took an uncustomary opening slide, "Did you really think you were doing Heaven's bidding?"

The chained man didn't respond immediately, but his pale violet eyes opened at the sound of the familiar voice. Protected by the cover of his pale hair, he pondered the question. It rolled back and forth in the kinetic haze of his mind, internal voices bickering over the correct answer.

He dared not let the other know he was aware, lest he take the opportunity to further harass him. In life he had fought this darkness, this shadow. He had fought and he had lost. To say his actions had been noble in the face of such crippling defeat was unthinkable. To admit to the sin of it, given his place in death, was also out of the question. Silence was the only answer he could give. After his verbose monologue, culminating in his death, it was all he had left.

"I know you can hear me, Ash," the shadow said, chuckling lightly, "So don't play dead. It is not a game that suits you."

In his bonds, Ash frowned deeply, anger and disgust twisting his features. So the devil knew he could hear him. Even in death he was to endure defeat at the hands of this creature. It was shameful. But then, he was in Hell. His punishment had to be thus, to fit his crime of hubris and self appointed import. The meaning was not lost on him, though at each turn he wished for an end to it. He felt thoroughly chastised.

In unbroken silence he looked up, hardened gaze softening to little more than a withering glance by the time he could see the other's face. It was that beautiful face he had appealed to, not so long ago, to be his lover and companion. It was that deceptively handsome, dark and alluring face which clouded his dreams with the most depraved acts. It was the face of his wanton prize and his ultimate destruction. The owner of that face, with its untamed onyx locks, sharp features and exotic brown eyes, had brought him death. For that, he hated him.

The demon smiled, towering over the fallen angel proudly. It wasn't that he had been the man's executioner or that after his defeat he had been sent straight to Hell. No, that smile was one of opportunity and salvation, if only in the blackest of ways.

The demon didn't expect a response. Ash was not one to waste his words, especially with him. So he took another move in their new game, a card this time, the ace, "I have come to make a trade, Ash."

The angel stared at him blankly. That was the last thing he expected the demon to say. A trade? A trade for what? Of what? It was cryptic and lent itself to immediate and intense scrutiny.

When the demon broke the heavy shackles which bound him to the wall, Ash was sure it was some sort of farce. Despite that, he stood hesitantly brushed himself off, "What sort of trade?"

The demon, the one he knew as Sebastian Michaelis, gave him a familiar half lidded smile. It was Cheshire in its intensity, but did not show even the smallest hint of teeth. It was a dangerous and beautiful smile, "I will return you to Earth, in exchange for your soul."

Ash sneered, brushing off his sleeve brusquely, "Absolutely not. Why would I do that? I am an angel. Piss off."

Sebastian nearly laughed at the vulgar outburst, opting instead to clarify his position, "You have been stripped of your divine rights, you are bound to Hell. I am your way out and might I be clear that I am your only way out."

Ash looked at him, darkness brooding in his mind with the same intensity as the rumbling fissures all around. An eternity bound to Hell was an unbearable thought, but giving his soul to the demon was almost as final. Then again, if given the opportunity, maybe he could be free and retain his soul as well. Just one more means to an end, "Fine, you can have it."

Sebastian smiled cruelly, "You are not as stubborn as I expected you to be."

Ash returned the smile in an effort to disarm his rival. The devil may have made the opening play, but Ash was now well aware of the game. This round he would not lose, "As you say, you are my only way out. To deny you is only keeping me bound."

"True," the demon said confidently, crouching down the angel's level, "Very true."

* * *

The cell block was dark, save for the single torch of pitch which sent shivering shadows along the seemingly endless walls of stone and mortar. No moonlight dared trickle through the high barred windows, afraid of the human animals which lay trapped within. Like the bowels of the Earth, narrow twisting halls, thick with torch smoke and the humid ranker of overcrowded confinement twined downward with cell upon crowded cell. Within those cells sat the criminally damned, awaiting their fate in filthy squalor.

Rats scurried about the floor, feeding on fallen scraps and scattered refuse left by the guards. For them this place was a good home, protected from both the elements and the feline hunters which prowled the London streets at night. For its human occupants however, also driven to seek scraps and trash to augment their meager fare, there was a desperate wish to return to the outside, away from the bars and the guards.

Disease ran rampant through the prison population, and one man sat in near silence cataloguing each fatal case. His long brown hair hung in grimy locks about his pale face as he murmured to the dark night, some still vainly held back with a frayed red bow of satin. It had been very nice once, as had his tailored black coat and linen shirt; but it looked like that had been a long time ago.

He kept his head bowed where he sat, his quiet words almost like prayer to those who chose to listen, "Catalon Smith, death Tuesday April Second 9:14 PM, cholera. Bones Gregor, death Monday April First 7:02 AM, execution by hanging. Neil Bugsey, death Tuesday April Second, consumption. Miller Norfolk, actually name Milly Eddleman, female… death Friday April Fifth, consumption."

The list went on and on, one name after another spoken quietly, fate brought to light by the unlikely messenger. With his brown hair and round glasses, speaking more for himself than anything; anyone listening would assume his insanity. He didn't care if those around him knew the death log. He was only reciting what he could tell from his surroundings. There was a time when it was his job to know such things.

A guard passed by the barred door on his rounds, dark uniform seeming to soak up all the light cast by the torch, blacker than the night itself. As his shadow fell over the meek man within, the prisoner turned, face plaintive behind the cracked glass of his spectacles, "Excuse me, but what is the date today?"

The guard paused, scrutinizing the man asking. He was not obligated to answer and with most prisoners he wouldn't bother. But this one seemed smarter than the rest, bat shit crazy, but with the steadfast edge of education. How he ended up in the bottom cell block was a complete mystery. It was a simple question after all, "It is Just after midnight, so it is the twenty second of March."

"Ah, I see," the prisoner responded blankly bowing his head once more, "James Worlwood, death April fourth, consumption." He paused, pondering the next name in his mind before actually putting voice behind it, "Grell Sutcliff, death March twenty fourth 7:11 am, execution by hanging. "

There was a long silence in the cell, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the pitch torch as it consumed the tar surrounding its wooden base. The man rolled the idea over in his mind again and again, "7:11 am… the noose must not break the neck… perhaps poorly tied." A moment longer, thinking. Then he resumed as he was, "Larry Bijon, death April first, knife fight. Leno Murlson, death March twenty fifth, consumption. . . "

Night turned to day, bringing tight pinches of sun, broken by each person to walked in front of the small, street level windows. The man did not find sleep until the sun began to recede once more, climbing too high in the sky to waste its rays below ground, and even then he only dreamed of death.


	2. Chapter 2: Distractions in's Aspect

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to those who have reviewed! You make my muse SING! I hope you're enjoying the story so far- I aim to please and if you please I'll aim. I wonder if you notice where the chapter titles came from. Or the title proper, actually! One person got it, can you catch the thread? Anyways, onward to the story. My story stats say I'm getting many many visitors- please take the time to review. I THRIVE on feedback (even the constructive crit kind).

The Mortal Coil: Chapter 2

Ash walked the manor halls with a confident strut, one foot placed in front of the other in an aristocratic perusal of his new home. The tall black boots he had found in the large dressing room of the East Wing clacked quietly along the dark mahogany floors, a hushed dirge to his passing.

He ran his fingers along the frilled lapels of his new coat, also found in the dressing room, enjoying the texture of finely embroidered lace. His thumbs traced the coat's front, enjoying the plush green velvet of it. He had made a good choice in his estimation, choosing this house to be his own. The clothes of its former master fit and suited him nicely, the décor was classical and finely appointed, and it was tucked far enough away from prying eyes that no one would notice the change of ownership immediately. It was a double edged perk and danger of a country manor house. One Ash found very advantageous.

The fallen angel peeked into rooms as he went, carefully taking stock of his new surroundings with the easy air of nobility which he took on so well. He was also looking to see if anyone else was in the house, hiding from his methodical and unhurried search. The more he looked, the more he liked. There were two different music rooms, one with an exquisite piano, the other with a rare armonica and dulcimer, each showcasing several other instruments along the walls. There was a room which had been devoted to ballet, expensive beveled mirrors along the entire span of a wall. Sitting rooms, drawing rooms, parlors and rooms which were meant to host grand parties jutted from the halls, testament to its previous owner's taste for the arts and social extravagance.

Very soft footsteps sounded behind the angel, causing him to pause in his exploration and smile broadly. He would know that sound anywhere, so quiet that a being of lesser sensitivity would miss it all together, "Has everything been taken care of, Sebastian?"

Stopping a few feet back from the angel, Sebastian tried to hide his look of distain. When he had taken on the contract, he had not expected his new 'master' to be so blood thirsty, a miscalculation on his part. His livery was stained with blood and there was the clear rake of human nails across the left side of his face. The occupants of the manor house had not given in easily, especially the children.

"There are still 'mice' in the halls, my lord." Sebastian said easily, letting his cold mask of servitude slide into place, "But I will be finishing shortly."

Ash frowned, "Don't call me that. That was the title given to your… boy, and I do not wish to share it."

"As you wish," Sebastian said with a short bow, "How would you like me to address you?"

Ash turned fluidly on heel, clasping his hands at his back as he considered the question. There was any number of titles he could have, but in the end he felt only one truly suited him, "Call me your angel."

Sebastian's eyes snapped open as he remained frozen in his submissive gesture, stomach rolling at the idea. He didn't believe this contract was a mistake, but he was going to have to work much harder for his meal that he had thought. The angel's lust for him had seemed to wear off during his time in Hell, or perhaps had evaporated during their fatal battle. Regardless, it seemed the man no longer held the affections which Sebastian had hoped to manipulate during their attachment.

"Yes, my angel," Sebastian finally replied, tongue already bitter from the words even as he deepened his bow, "By your leave, I shall go finish my duties."

"Yes," Ash said, turning back to continue his stroll, "Take care of all the… mice."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes dangerously. He knew better than to argue with his master, and yet he felt there was one thing he should say, delicacy and decorum aside, "This course of action was completely unnecessary. You didn't need to kill everyone in the house; you could have chosen somewhere else."

With a flippant wave of his hand, Ash glanced back over his shoulder, "I didn't kill them Sebastian, you did. And I am aware this wasn't my only option, it was simply the house I wanted. With a servant such as you at my side, why shouldn't I have what I want?"

"It was wasteful," Sebastian said, voice close to a growl, veil of submission perilously thin.

Ash fixed his violet eyes on the demon, his displeasure evident. How dare the man speak to him like that. He was in contract and Ash was his master. He should know his place well and keep to it, "I don't care, now leave me."

Sebastian bowed again before backing a few steps down the hall before turning and walking away from the ugly creature he had attached himself to. He purposefully left affirmation of his duties in silence. He had already said the phrase once and was not apt to use it more than was absolutely necessary.

* * *

The streets of London were far less crowded than they had been in the seasons before the great fire. The smell of raw wood and new construction was everywhere, giving the entire city the refreshing scent of the forest mixed in odd cocktail with the acrid stench of boiling tar and wet mortar. Buildings still showed the white of bare timber, waiting to be painted so that they would blend back to the urban backdrop once more, erasing the memory of the flames entirely.

The people who had returned to the city seemed more subdued in their surroundings, still wary of another disaster in the wake of the last. Many were working class, forced back into the alleys and small flats that escaped ruin. To go elsewhere was to risk starvation. With London as the epicenter of England's travel and trade, to try another city was only to invite desolate disappointment.

The aristocracy which had returned for the social season walked the streets carefully, garbed in finery which was somehow darker than before, straighter and less adorned. They still looked rich and sophisticated, but harsher in the stripes and tweed patterning of the new era. They were like cars, better than carriages but far less romantic. The new age was industrial and those that could afford to followed the trend.

Ciel Phantomhive walked down the street purposefully; eyes forward despite the entourage that followed and the pale woman at his side. It was the benign neglect of their presence made him feel more himself in the city which had ultimately claimed his life months before.

The woman wore a fine dress of black, edged with woven purple ribbon and white lace. The color was very popular now, a hat tip to the queen in her new humanitarian efforts since the disaster. Purple was a show of appreciation and the woman wore it with poise, though her reasons were a bit different. She was like the delicate hat pinned in her hair with its spray of white and iridescent green feathers, festive loops and hanging tails of purple ribbon which matched her dress and white lace which came down fashionably on one side of her face; an object meant to emulate something which it was not. The hat did not block the sun, nor was it actually a bird, but it held elements of being something recognizable, something normal.

Ciel was dressed in equal darkness. His smartly tailored coat and shorts of black, accentuated with bright red underpinnings and cravat at his neck as well as a stylish bow at the small of his back, tails trailing to his knees. The colors made him look older and more mature, a good match to the woman beside him despite his short stature.

Behind them the two servants walked in solemn silence, dressed in matching livery of black and grey. One was a man of about five feet and nine inches, most likely a butler. The other was a woman, tall for her gender at almost five feet and seven inches. They both had blue eyes to rival those of their master, though lighter and more like the aqua of the sky than the brooding storminess of the Earl's. Their pitch black hair was long and straight, tied back from their faces with simple white ribbon. One could say each was striking, despite the plain attire which denoted their station. It was obvious by the way they moved that they were not servants of simple upbringing, feline grace and balance in every step they took, footsteps absolutely silent.

The woman, Relana, placed a hand on the young Earl's shoulder, almost surprised as she looked at the black lace glove which was upon it. She still was not used to so much fabric about her being. The earl glanced at her, face serious but soft. He was learning to let go of the bitterness that haunted his mind, though it was as much a product of lack of sleep as actual want of change.

"Are you excited to see Elizabeth again?" the woman asked, honey colored eyes shimmering in the late afternoon sun, "I'm sure she will be surprised to see you."

Ciel shrugged, gently removing her hand, "I suppose, but I think it may be unseemly to return as her fiancé for the second time. Her family is going to think I have a habit of returning from the dead on a regular basis."

Relana smiled lightly, pulling a black and white lace fan from around her wrist, opening it with flourish as she said, "They may think you are a witch with such habits."

Ciel's expression went cold, "That isn't funny, woman."

Relana put a finger to her lips in silent understanding, but her smile did not fade as she did so. It reminded the earl of another dark creature who once walked beside him down the streets of London, a similar smile across his lips in secretive knowledge.

"The jeweler is just ahead," Ciel said, changing the subject, "I don't think the fire reached this block."

"No, I doubt it did. These buildings still look original. Though the new construction looks like it will be very nice, a renaissance of London Architecture."

"It will all look the same in a few years," Ciel said sourly as they came to the jeweler's door. He waited as the black haired man servant opened the door for them, disappearing inside in sure steps, "This city has rot so deep that no fire will ever be able to eradicate it completely."

Relana closed her fan, letting it dangle from her wrist once more, "It is the balance of light and dark, here as it is everywhere."

Ciel's mind swung hard to think of the 'dark' of his life. A childhood of pure light, cut short by the sunset flames of betrayal, then consumed by the demonic darkness that saved him. Much of him missed that darkness; he didn't know what to do now that he was back in the daylight of life.

"Do you have something in particular in mind, Ciel?" Relana asked, nodding her hello to the elderly man behind the counter.

"I do actually," the Earl replied, tipping his hat curtly, "I actually had it commissioned almost a month ago."

The jeweler remembered this one; the dark aristocratic boy who walked with the resolution of a grown man. He was one who had not seen anyone like him before, though he had been reminded of a painfully handsome man who had come to purchase a ring from him almost fifteen years previous. If the man hadn't been so exotically beautiful he would not have remembered, but he could distinctly see the ring the man had bought in his mind's eye; a large pink diamond trimmed on all sides with a frost of silvery white stones of equal quality. It had been a stunning ring, and the one the boy had commissioned was even more exquisite.

The jeweler pulled a mat of black velvet from beneath his counter, reaching then for one of the dozens of finely polished wooden boxes on the shelves behind. Once he had the box he needed, he opened it, placing the ring on the velvet like an offering to the gods.

The silvery white gold shone in stunning contract to its velvet bed, worked into the very delicate tendrils of a flower stem. It wound around the band, culminating on one side in very finely wrought leaves, the other side coming up in an unopened flower bud. Between the edges of golden finery lay the stones, sapphires patterned like the small petals of a violet, tiny diamonds dotting the center and artistically placed upon the petal work like dew. Undeniably unique and the jeweler guessed it had important meaning held within its gem crusted brilliance. The boy had been very clear that it was not to be gaudy, but intricate, delicate, and breathtaking all the same.

Ciel picked up the ring, turning it in the subdued light of the shop, "This is perfect, every piece is exactly as I asked."

Ciel gently placed the ring back into its box, closing the lid and placing it in the pocket of his coat. He motioned to the silent woman dressed in man's butler livery, "Pay the man," he ordered curtly, looking back at the jeweler, "Thank you for taking the commission on such short notice."

The jeweler smiled as the servant came forward and deposited a small purse of coin in his hand, her face devoid of emotion, absolutely silent. He nodded cheerily, holding the purse in his large palm, "Yes, Earl Phantomhive. It was my pleasure to work on such a magnificent request. There is no ring like it in the world!"

Ciel smiled wanly, remembering the other ring which WAS like the beautiful wrought gold in his pocket, "No, I suppose there isn't. Thank you again."


	3. Chapter 3: To Sleep Per Chance

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to those who reviewed, especially those who took the time to come out of lurking to do so (Alexis)! I really appreciate you taking the time to do so. It made my day! To my loyal readers who have this story on alert or have me on watch, thank you once again for your notes of praise and encouragement.

The Mortal Coil: Chapter 3

The night was dark, save for a half moon hanging low on the horizon. It sent shafts of pale illumination along the cobble streets and alleys, tipping the stones in milky light. The dull glow didn't fight the dark, mingling in the recesses of the city, turning the atmosphere into a foreboding haze. The corners where the moon could not reach were in even deeper shadow, hiding the most sinister criminals from prying eyes.

Beneath the bridge overlooking the Thames, a slim silhouette sat, back hunched against the London cold. He watched the water flow, dark and murky in its sluggish journey to the sea beyond. Moments ticked by, just as the water flowed in agonizing slowness, metered by the beating of his heart. He listened to its alien rhythm, quiet in his chest. It was a sound he never thought he had to listen to again, that he had found immunity from its metronome. But it was there, one beat after another, life ticking away.

The shade turned from the river as footsteps sounded above, the hollow clack an echo of time's passage. What was the hour? He looked up, moonlight catching the edge of rounded glass frames in a short flash. He felt blindly along the front of his coat, searching for the familiar weight of his watch chain. The hour was late. Was it past midnight?

The watch wasn't there and with a short sound of annoyance he remembered why. He had been hungry the day before and used it to barter a meal at a pub. A meal which had not tasted nearly as good as he thought it should, given the quality of the watch. It had, however, taken care of his hunger.

He stood silently, his frame little more than a thin shadow against the bridge frame. He was not a shy man and concluded that since he did not know the time, he should ask the fellow walking above. They would be able to tell him. He made his way around the metal and stonework, climbing the short service ladder to the street. Climbing seemed more difficult now; like he was moving through water or that he had gained a considerable amount of weight. The idea was preposterous, given that he was averaging a single meal every two days and had actually lost several pounds.

The streetlamps cast light in a tight radius around their base, all else left to the night's obscurity. The shade that emerged from beneath the bridge no longer was protected by the cloak of darkness, brought into heavy relief by the muddied streetlamp. He was a man who, as of late, did not fully recognize his reflection when he saw it. The long, straight brown hair, the pale and rather gaunt complexion, the grayish hollows beneath his otherwise striking green eyes; he knew them and yet he didn't. He was still Grell Sutcliff, and yet he was not himself anymore at all, not even in his own head.

Grell could see the lone man as he walked down the street, a servant by his clothing. With quiet steps he followed, closing the gap between them with surprising stealth. Some things never changed, his fluid movement being one of them. The lamps cast everything in deep amber, edged in black shadows. The contract was sinister in its effect, making everything stand in sharp relief.

The servant was tall and lean, dressed in the black tails of his livery. The suit was tailored, but it looked like it had been altered from its original size, judging by the imperfect seam work. He was most likely its second or even third owner. It was not uncommon, given that the man was also young, perhaps new to his post. His short and measured stride of uncertainty only added to the idea. Was he afraid to be out so late at night?

His black hair was pulled back into a short tail, tied with a narrow burgundy ribbon. It was the understated copy of Grell's hair, which was tied back with a much fuller, red ribbon. The fallen butler took a moment to pull the stray wisps of hair from his eyes, tucking them gingerly behind his ear before he spoke, "Excuse me, but would you have the time?"

The servant stopped, turning around somewhat warily. He had not heard the other approach, and his close proximity was unnerving. The servant was right to be concerned, for as his face came into view, the tired but innocuous visage of the man asking the time fell to shock and then flared to unsettling malice.

"You…" Grell breathed, eyes now fixed on the other's face in horrified disbelief. His heart lurched in his chest, skipping a beat in time. Whether that was a pause that gave him one more moment of life, or a skip which shortened it didn't matter now. He was looking directly into the past, another time and place brought to the present by the yellow light, "You…"

The man hoisted the sack he was carrying a little closer to his chest, venturing a shy smile at the person who had stopped him. He hadn't expected to run into anyone this late, "C-can I help you?"

Grell just stood, dumbstruck. The man before him could not possibly be who his mind insisted it was, and yet, he was there. The way his black hair hung about his face in a jagged frame, coming long just before his ears before it swept upward; somewhat longer now, but completely familiar. The servant's sharp features; his slender jaw line and high cheekbones, his alluring brown eyes edged with long lashes, he was so familiar in the street lamp's disfiguring glow. Despite that, he didn't seem to recognize Grell.

As the man stood, Grell found his voice, "The time?"

"I-I'm sorry, I don't have a time piece," he said amicably, shifting his parcel again before turning to walk away, "Have a pleasant night."

Anger flared hot against his skin, stinging his cheeks with a deep flush of color. He could feel it burning in the darkness of his memory like molten lead slowly poured into his ear, destroying his mind.

The servant walked away quickly, and the slender brunette walked silently just behind, gaze fixed on the back of the man's head. He could tell the other was now purposefully ignoring his presence, focusing on the street, fearful of the strange person following him. He should have been afraid, Grell's mind saw right through the disguise. He knew…

They wove in and out of the lamp light as the bridge gave way to the main thoroughfare. The servant walked a block then turned onto a side street. Home was just a short distance off. He knew he would be at the door of the townhome where he was lodged and employed, safe from the odd fellow that insisted on following him. He counted the street lights, he would be home in the distance of ten more; just ten more. As light and dark fell over the painfully familiar features, Grell became more and more angry. How dare he not pay attention, how dare he not notice, how dare he pretend to not recognize him.

Blood rushed through his veins, pounding through his ears, roaring in his heart; its rhythm beating a drum to the passage of time faster and faster. Moments came and went until he felt there were none left, none for HIM. With an angry yell the shade made his move, shoving the servant into a darkened alley with feral determination.

"No, not you. Not you!" he said hoarsely, "Don't you see me? Don't pretend you don't!"

The servant stumbled as he was pushed, feet catching him before he hit the ground awkwardly.

"What are you talking about?" he cried, putting his parcel to the front protectively as he took wide steps backwards, deeper into the alley.

Grell growled, baring his teeth as the storm of his mind grew wilder and wilder, "You ruined me! You ruined my life!" He looked down at himself, spreading his arms to emphasize, "You made me THIS, this THING!"

He lurched lurched forward, catching the servant by his tie. The silk cord drew tight around his opponent's neck, choking him like a noose. With a swing of his arms Grell knocked the parcel from the man's hands and brutally smashed him against the wall. He followed after to press their bodies close, "You never did like me much."

There was a feminine edge to his movements and voice, laced with the supreme anger of a lover scorned, "I have been punished for every crime you placed upon my head. I was your willing sacrifice, your scapegoat led to slaughter; always yours as you were NEVER mine."

The servant stared bewildered at the man before him. Grell's eyes shone in the dark like green foxfire, framed by his long dark hair and boring into the servant's soul with bitter accusation, "Y-you're crazy, sir. Now l-let me pass!"

"No, I am done with all of this," Grell growled hotly, pushing the man to the ground and tackling him after. They wrestled in the darkness, each trying to gain the advantage, one trying to flee while the other kept pulling him back down.

The servant managed to wrench an arm free, catching Grell in a swift strike to the chin that made him see red. His teeth clacked together horribly, sending a sizable chip from his mouth, but rather than pause in the pain he continued with more force, "This is where it ends, Sebastian."

In the dark, Grell grabbed for one of the large, loose cobbles. Several had worked themselves free from the road and lay strewn about the alley. Once firmly in his grip he raised it high about his straddled victim, "Goodbye," he lilted sickly, tears shining brightly, irate and unshed.

* * *

Grell awoke to the sound of the guard's nightstick clanging against the bars of his cell loudly, heralding the call of morning. But it was not just the call to another day, it was the bell tolling his name. The vivid dream of his crime dissipated as consciousness found a hold. He hadn't dreamt of it since it happened, feeling no remorse or regret. Whoever the man had actually been was irrelevant. He had gotten some small, twisted bit of revenge; or as close to revenge as he was likely to get. If he could pinpoint regret, it would only be that he was slated for death. But then, he had been condemned to death anyways. His deed only sped the process along, considerably.

He smiled, keeping his eyes on the ground. Below him was the dirty straw he had slept on for the last several months, awaiting his fate. It was strangely comforting that he would not have to sleep on it another night, though he thought he should be more concerned why he wouldn't be returning, "Death is release," he said mockingly, "Is that not right, officer?"

It made sense that he would dream of that night now, in the final hours of his life. It was like the cinematic record was playing already; his crime followed by his punishment; a memory on the heels of the final act. The curtain was up and the show was about to begin. He could hear the gallows outside with its trap door dropping, letting the poor mortals above break their necks and dangle perilously until their bodies stopped twitching. If they were lucky, their necks would break and it would be quick. If there were not, they would slowly strangle and suffocate.

"Grell Sutcliff, Death March 24th, 7:11 AM. Execution by hanging," Grell murmured, pushing his glasses a bit higher on the bridge of his nose. As he mentally readied himself for the end, he knew without doubt, his would not be an easy death, "My execution is at 7:00 AM… I hang for so long. I wonder if my soul will be tried as human… or as shinigami. Or if I will simply cease to be…"

* * *

Sebastian stood stoically before the open closet door, expression unreadable as he looked at the man who had hidden amongst the dresses and coats. He was a thin little thing, with mousy brown hair and hazel eyes set behind thin oval framed glasses. His skin was dewy from his confinement with the obvious sheen of crying smeared over his pale cheeks.

There was a moment of recognition where Sebastian honestly thought he was looking at the shinigami he knew so well, disguised once more as a simple human. But the moment passed with only the barest flicker in his expression. This was not Grell, this was not anyone. This was just another body who didn't know he was dead yet, that would be added to the others piled in the pantry before Sebastian could dig a hole and bury them.

The man stood stock still, gripping the fur coat he had hidden behind hard enough to make his knuckles white. He was like a rabbit caught in the sites of a hunter's gun, unable to flee and unable to fight, "P-please don't hurt me."

Sebastian tilted his head to the side slightly, smiling wanly at the trembling servant before him. Even his voice was similar to Grell's, soft and unsure in its tenor. Had he been human, Sebastian was sure it would tug at his heart, urging him to let the man go. As it was, human or not, there was an ironic sort of regret that he would be killing someone who already reminded of the man he used so mercilessly.

Sebastian stepped forward, pushing past the fine garments until he was mere inches from the frightened man's face. He could feel the fear rolling off of him in thick waves, igniting his hunger despite the promise of his ethereal contract. It was a strong pull, sharpened by his frustrations with the angel and his ways. He had been told to get rid of the household with no direct parameters on how it was to be done. With his task nearly complete, there would be no harm in indulging his nature.

Without hesitation, Sebastian brought his hand up around the young man's neck and gripped slightly, pushing him farther into the closet with little more than guiding pressure. The man stepped backwards, pliant against Sebastian's movements.

As they came to the back of the closet, Sebastian pressed the man against the wall, insistent but controlled. His eyes glowed a shimmering pink, sharp pupils rounded in a subdued light, "You are going to die."

The man made a frantic little sound, trying to pry Sebastian's hand off and bolt past him. But Sebastian's grip held firm, pressing him back as his other hand moved to his chest. He looked into the man's eyes knowingly, interest piqued just slightly by the flecks of green and brown he found there, "No, none of that."

The heartbeat beneath Sebastian's hand was frantic and uneven, lending to an existing malady within his victim. It was another ironic tie to Grell, the shinigami with a heart that could break. Maybe he had a heart that actually had broken already, after their parting he hadn't bothered to contact him. It was just as well; they had parted quite poorly.

Sebastian moved his hand from around the other's neck, touching his face lightly before tucking stray locks of brown hair behind his ear. In another situation, it would have been an affectionate gesture, but in his case it was nothing more than a cold study of his victim.

"I don't want to die," the man whispered, sensing that there might yet be hope with Sebastian's gentle touch, "S-spare me, let me go. I'm only a butler."

"As am I," Sebastian said, chuckling lightly, "And for that reason, I cannot let you go. I am sorry."

Panic rose farther within the fragile body before him, whetting Sebastian's appetite to a level he hadn't experienced for a long time. Despite the soul's unrefined flavor and questionable substance, Sebastian wanted to devour him. Ash could be angry with him for it, but the craving was not to be denied and could not be ignored.

His new found meal looked like he might drop from fear alone, lashes fluttering as his heart lugged along unevenly, "P-please, I'm begging you."

Sebastian shook his head, "I cannot. But do not feel too bad about it, your heart is damaged, you wouldn't have lived long anyway."

Once more the man froze in shock. How had he known about his condition? He had been so careful to hide it from his employers, from everyone. No one wanted a sickly butler and certainly not one whose heart could give out at any time. It was a liability and would prove to be an inconvenience as soon as something happened.

The man's trepidation and confusion was amusing, and though Sebastian had no reason to give him anything, he felt he should be kind, "I will make your death a good one. You will not suffer."

The man nodded, resigned to his fate. He was not a strong man, hiding rather than fighting, apologizing rather than confronting others. It had always been that way, and it made sense that in the end, after there was no more hiding and no more words, that he would simply give up.

He closed his eyes and waited for something to happen. Would the dark man stab him? Slit his throat? Or perhaps he would strangle the life from him instead. It was a mystery that played out dozens of ways in his desperate mind.

He felt the man's hand cup his jaw, lifting his chin up. So that was it, his throat would be slit. To him it seemed messy and slow, but what was he supposed to do about it now? He swallowed at the odd angle, readying himself to feel the cold bite of a blade against his neck. But it never came. Instead he felt a hand on his chest, pressing against its center firmly.

Sebastian took a breath, siphoning the man's soul as carefully as he could. He knew it wasn't Grell, he knew there was no reason to be kind, but he felt compelled to anyway. The man stiffened against him at the first sharp pain of separation, a gasping cry caught in his throat at the second, more forceful pull.

"Don't fight it," Sebastian murmured quietly, placing his forehead against the young man's brow as he continued, "It has been a long time since I have been gentle."

The servant could feel himself slipping away, pouring into the strange man before him, bleeding his life out in a steady stream, "What will happen to me?"

"You will die and what is left of your soul will be committed to Hell," Sebastian said evenly, moaning lightly as he felt the high of nourishment course into him. The man's soul was nothing special, but it had a finer flavor than he had expected, "Your life has been… difficult?"

"S-somewhat," he admitted breathlessly, exhaustion pouring over him like tar.

"I see," Sebastian breathed, ripping the collar of the man's shirt as he possessively tasted the flesh between his neck and shoulder. He didn't actually bite, but he did suck gently, bumping his hips against his victim.

It was there as it always was, the ache of arousal guised in the need for food. Another pull, stronger and more violent, sent the young servant reeling in pain. Sebastian was trying to be kind, to be gentle, but the silent scream emanating from the man's open mouth told him he had failed, "I am sorry," he said heavily, moaning before he pushed his hand more fully against the man's chest, cracking ribs as he went, "I shall finish quickly."

Unconsciousness swam before him in black waves; turmoil building as his body realized it was failing. Directions such as up and down seemed arbitrary, the entire story of his life absolutely unimportant, "Please… forgive me," he moaned, eyes fluttering closed. Moments later, his knees buckled and Sebastian was forced to keep his deteriorating body up, milking the last bit of his life.

As his essence was completely devoured, Sebastian slowly laid the body on the floor. In death the man looked even more like Grell; as if death's veil was a looking glass, beyond which was the shinigami he had mistreated so absolutely. He thought about the man's last words. He wanted forgiveness from God, presumably, but he never got the chance to finish the statement. So Sebastian responded as he felt was oddly fitting; an apology that came too late to help anyone, but as close to a realization of guilt as he was likely to get, "No Grell, please forgive… me."


	4. Chapter 4: Under a Weary Life

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you once again for the reviews! I am sorry that it has taken me this long to update any of the stories… but it is convention season and I'm working on a lot of cosplays, going to photo shoots, and doing that whole "con thing". I haven't forgotten about this story though, FAR FROM! So, here is another chapter for you to enjoy. If you like it (or maybe even if you don't) please review. It means the WORLD to me- and truth be told, it makes me produce chapters more quickly. As I have said before… it is my muse food!

Updates are on the way for Purrfect Love as well! So if you're following that story, you'll be pleased to know a new chapter is almost done! In other news, I am working on yet another Kuroshitsuji fic! It's a bit of a surprise, but for my loyal readers I really can't keep it to myself. . . It is a story about the origins of Undertaker. I promise… it is not like anything you would ever expect and it will be historically delicious! Until then… please enjoy!

Mortal Coil: Chapter 4

The morning chill hung in the London air like a wraith, observing the people who walked the street in the early hours of the day. It clung wetly to the walls and stone works, weaving around silent lamp posts as their flames were extinguished one by one. The succession of little fires, each burning brightly before snuffed to smoke, was a prelude to the morning's events. They were all like the little lives which would find their end after the sun rose just a bit more in the sky.

Outside Newgate the gallows had already been erected in its usual place, foreboding in the stark white light. Clouds covered the sky in grey, backlit by the sun to a silver which hurt the eyes. The blue of the coming day had been washed away by their heavy layer, bleached and unhappy. Cold air felt like the coming death to those who could see the gallows from within, whispering with the fetid breath of the city

Grell stood with the others awaiting death, his head bowed in silent thought while the others fretted and prayed. What good was it now, to pray and worry about hat was to come? It was all inevitable and inescapable; so to even consider what was beyond was fruitless, but very human.

He found himself almost happy. He would soon be able to forget the Ministry's trial and all it had entailed. Even the bleak thought of inexistence was preferable to the memory of being questioned and examined, judged and punished. The ironic part was that after the Ministry had passed judgment, William still tried to protect him. That was how he ended up where he was now, facing a human's execution.

No, that wasn't fair. William had not damned him to this fate. He had damned himself after being given yet another chance. It hadn't been a perfect chance, but it was the absolute best William could have hoped to do; a human existence in place of a reaper's death. Another thirty years of life at least, followed by a review. At that there was a slim chance he would be accepted back to the Ministry as a reaper. William was counting on his sway in the London office to aid that paperwork along.

But it seemed once more that the very best of intentions had backfired. Not through external fault of circumstance, but through Grell's actions. He had been angry, he was STILL angry, and his bloodlust had done nothing to lessen the pain or remedy the problem. It had just brought him to another trial with more questions and a final sentence.

A crowd had gathered outside the debtor's gate, ready for what they considered their morning entertainment. They mingled and talked quietly about the weather, the queen's new commitment to public service and of course the rumors circulating about what crimes the damned had committed. It was all very cordial, as if they were waiting for a steeple chase to begin. Any onlooker would not have been able to assume that they were talking about the demise of the fallen. As they glanced at their pocket watches in anticipation, the only concrete reminder of looming death was the wooden gallows. It stood over the crowd like an idol, false and dangerous.

* * *

The two silent Phantomhive servants navigated through the mob slowly, two abreast, clearing a path for Relana and Ciel to walk without being pressed. Their dark hair shone in the strange morning light, adding a particularly unearthly glow to their pale and serious features. Though they were obviously not nobility, the people gave them room to pass. Their subconscious knew better than to block the path, lest they get caught in their unsettling circumstance.

Ciel looked up at the gallows as they passed, appraising the structure with a serious air of detachment. He had probably sent more than one man to his death while in the service of the Queen and for better or worse he was not sorry about it; he had made the best decisions to pursue and convict with the information he had at the time. He doubted that even with the angel's interference that most of what he tracked and caught was anything less than guilty to the core. It was very black and white then, very straight forward.

Now things were different however. What he had once assumed to be wrong didn't seem so seriously vile and things which were purported as completely good held an edge of darkness to them. For his part he couldn't tell what he was anymore, good or bad, rotten of clean. He was not what he was before, he knew that much. He was stronger and weaker, older and yet much more naïve. The world had opened up to him in a way he assumed was long gone and though it was a blessing, it frightened him as well.

As he walked with the witch at his side, he wondered what was to come of all of it. She was not a creature of Heaven or Hell, but she wasn't entirely human either. She had great power, but even greater flaws, borne of a human mind and human limitation. Whatever she was, he felt himself becoming bit by bit. It was dangerous, but it was the only protection he could give himself in the empty wake of his demon's abandonment.

Relana stopped, placing a gentle hand on Ciel's shoulder. Her light eyes were focused on the wall of the prison just beyond the edge of the crowd. As people passed in front, loitering as they waited for the executions to begin, she could see a strange man propped against the chipped brickwork.

"Look over there," she said quietly, pointing in his direction with her other delicately gloved hand, "It's a reaper."

Ciel craned his neck to see over the throng of people, catching a glimpse of the familiar black hat and dark robes he associated with the Undertaker, "I assume he would he here, he runs the mortuary."

Relana continued to look, only averting her eyes when the man sent a particularly unsettling grin in her direction, "How creepy."

Ciel looked up at her cynically, "Oh, you have no idea."

The crowd began to press in, each wanting the very best view of the gallows. It was like piranha vying for the best feeding position, shoulders bumping as the volume of conversation increased. However there was a pair of somber men towards the back who made no move to jockey for position, their expressions somber and serious.

They wore very plain clothes by the day's standard; black suits with grey waistcoats and plain white dress shirts. They seemed to be business men of sorts, or perhaps accountants. They wore none of the en vogue bows or ribbons, opting instead for plain black ties, knotted smartly about their necks and tucked into the buttoned fronts of their vest. The taller of the two had black hair, neatly parted to the side and slicked exactly in place. The other had somewhat longer blonde hair which curled lightly and fluttered in the early morning breeze.

Relana caught them out of the corner of her eye, taking note because unlike the rest of the crowd, they merely stood stoically at the back, waiting. It was almost as if they had no interest to see the spectacle close up, but they were there to see it all the same. It took her a moment to realize why they stood out so sorely. It was that they both had the offbeat aura she had come to associate with the shinigami. To describe it she would have to say it was like a low humming noise that smelled of slightly rotten strawberries. There wasn't really a better way to describe it.

"Why are there so many?" she wondered out loud, scanning the crowd to see if there were even more than the three she had spotted. Unless there was going to be mass death, there was no reason for there to be three in one place.

Ciel gave her a quizzical look. He assumed the Undertaker would be there to take the bodies away and nail them into their plain pine coffins for burial. There might have been another to do the actual sorting of the souls, but given the nature of the deaths about to take place, that would most likely be fast cataloging, "What do you mean?"

She motioned towards the pair, "Those two over there."

Ciel followed the tilt of her head warily, gaze meeting with none other than William T. Spears. Yes they were reapers, though he had never seen the blonde one before. So on his part it was assumption, though during their brief meeting Ciel had already made note that Mr. Spears wasn't the sort of man to mix business with… anything. So he wouldn't keep company with anything other than reapers.

"Are there more?" He breathed lowly. If there were it could very well mean something catastrophic was about to happen. There would be no other reason to have them all poised at the same place.

"I can't tell," Relana admitted, covertly scanning the crowd from behind the protection of her lace fan, "Between the three of them it's hard to pinpoint anything more."

Their conversation was cut short when a man stepped out onto the gallows and announced the beginning of the morning's executions, reading off names one by one as the weary and frightened faces of the criminals came into view along the plank. There were five in total, crimes ranging from burglary to murder. Each already appeared beaten and punished already, like their death would just be the final note in the orchestra of their just pain, "Phillip Larson, assault. Timothy Garby, burglary and assault. Will Sherman, murder. Grell Sutcliff, Murder…" 

At the sound of the fourth name, Ciel wheeled around in shock. Had he heard correctly? Was Grell at the gallows about to be executed? He scanned the line of criminals, expecting to see the flaming red hair he had come to associate with the shinigami, but two passes over the lineup showed none in sight, "Relana, did they say Grell Sutcliff?"

Relana shrugged her shoulders gently, "I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention. Maybe, why do you ask though?"

Ciel slowed his study of each criminal as they positioned themselves beneath the nooses which would ultimately end their lives. As he peered up at the fourth criminal in line he realized why he hadn't immediately recognized him. He had been expecting Grell the shinigami, but the man standing at the gallows was Grell the butler, meek and drab.

Grell's clothes hung on his too thin body like faded rags, edges frayed and stained. If he as unremarkable during his time with Ciel's aunt, he was even more so now. He looked gaunt and tired, features drawn to sooty and bedraggled angles. Even his glasses were worse for wear, so scratched that it was a wonder he could see through them at all. While Ciel had never particularly liked the reaper, he had to admit it pained him to see the man so withered, especially in the position he was in. Furthermore he was confused; Grell had given him back his life only a few months previous- what had happened in that short span to land him in prison, a HUMAN prison?

Relana followed his gaze upward, looking from face to sad face, "What's going on?"

Ciel pointed at Grell, who didn't seem to notice him, "I know that man."

The boy looked back over his shoulder at William and the blonde reaper. Both had their eyes on Grell, but neither made any move to stop the proceedings. It was like they were waiting for something. He assumed they had come to Grell's aid, but the red reaper's sorry appearance made him question that. Why had they let him sit in prison if that was the case?

From above the crowd, Grell went from face to face in hopes of finding someone familiar. As much as he didn't really want his co-workers to see him in such a state, he didn't really want to die so alone, so forgotten. Someone had to be there though, to reap his soul after he died. He knew that much or at least thought he did. His death, like his life, would be anything but ordinary. Maybe in his case his soul would simply disappear to nothing. He had fallen so far that he couldn't be sure.

He smiled weakly as he saw William at the edge of the crowd. Ron was there too, looking at him somberly. Someone had come… Grell felt his throat tighten in pained relief. He wasn't alone after all.

Tears bit at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over his cheeks. He didn't know if it was from regret or respite, but he tried to hold them ay bay regardless. He was getting scared. He didn't want to die now. It always seemed so far away as an immortal and so unreal as it neared in this mortal state. However now that it was upon him, with no certainty over what would happen after, he felt his stomach churn and knees grow weak. Was this what it felt like to be human? To not be sure of the aftermath? To wait in excruciating mental agony over the possibilities? He was late to the party, but just as those who had been praying and recoiling in fear as they waited within, Grell found his own terror standing at his execution.

He looked at Will fondly, mouthing a quiet thank you just before the black bag was shoved roughly over his head. He cried out in surprise, losing his footing for a moment as the man gathered it around his throat and tied it behind. It was thin and smelled rank with sweat and worse. How many people had worn this exact cowl to their death? It was so vulgar that he should be one in a long line to be subjected to it.

"P-please," he whimpered as he felt the noose come over his head, tightening with a zipping sound behind him, "Please no…"

Blood rushed through his ears as his heart struggled to keep up with his rising panic. Each moment was agony but the thought of them running out was worse. He could smell his breath inside the black hood, hot and sour with fear as adrenaline soared through him. Quick gasps for air were all he could hear, his own voice thick against his ears, mixed with the awful rush through his veins. His time was close and nobody knew it with more accuracy than he did. At seven they would pull the lever and he would drop. He would remain there for another eleven minutes while he slowly strangled to death. There was no mercy in his final moments.

Ciel watched as the dark sacks were placed over each prisoner's head, hiding their faces fro public sight. He had been told that when someone hanged their faces contorted and their eyes could bulge from their head, but the cheap black disguise of that fact seemed like a shoddy afterthought to that. Regardless, Ciel wanted to know why Grell was up there and more importantly, why his colleagues weren't helping him.

"I'm sorry about your friend," Relana said gently, turning to continue her trek out of the crowd. She didn't need to see this and it wasn't the reason for their passing through that area, "I'm sure he will find rest after this is done."

Ciel shook his head, "You don't understand, that's a reaper up there."

Relana squinted against the pale sunlight, focusing directly on the man on the gallows, "No… he isn't. It's hard to tell who is with there being more than one around, but he is just a human."

Ciel pointed at the gallows, "No, that is a reaper. That is the shinigami that gave me my soul back. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."

Ciel turned back in growing concern, eyeing William and his companion, "Why aren't they doing anything? Why are they here if they aren't going to do anything?"

Relana remembered the shinigami that had performed the ritual quite well. It was the same one she had threatened on the blackened London streets following the fire. He was nothing like any of the men up there. He aura was completely different and his appearance was unmistakable. Yet, Ciel seemed absolutely convinced.

William caught sight of Ciel in the crowd, locking eyes with the boy in cold recognition. They stared at each other for a moment, each hiding their surprise behind a mask of indifference. Ciel looked up at Grell and then back at William, taking a couple steps in his direction. He was hell bent on getting an answer.

As William saw the Phantomhive boy move towards him, he slowly put his hand up, signaling him to stop where he was before shaking his head slowly back and forth. No, there would be no answer just as there would be no action. Things would play out as they would play out. Neither party was to interfere.

Ciel turned to face the Undertaker, who was no more helpful than William. He remained against the wall, eyes cast down behind his thick curtain of silver bangs, further protected by the brim of his hat. He knew as well as anyone what was going on, but like the others he was not inclined to interfere. Things were as they were for a reason.

"Relana," Ciel said in a commanding tone, "Do something."

The woman looked up at the gallows, shaking her head, "I don't know what you want me to do. Besides, I'm sure that there's a reason for-"

"I don't care!" Ciel growled, coming to stand before her. He was still small and frail, but the determination in his eyes was not to be missed. It was like Sebastian was at his side again and he was giving the orders, "Forgive my rudeness, Lady, but there isn't a lot of time to discuss this. I know him and though I don't particularly like him, I feel there is somewhat of a debt between us."

"Ciel…" she said gently, taking his hand to lead him away. The servants watched the whole scene placidly, waiting for their master to continue on his way. They seemed to have no interest in what was happening around them, it didn't concern them in the least.

"No!" Ciel hissed, snatching his hand away, "I'm asking you to do something. I don't ask much of you but I must insist. He is the reason the other reapers are around, but they aren't helping him!"

Relana crossed her arms, looking up at the gallows, "I wouldn't assume that they would. If he was a reaper before, he isn't one now. We shouldn't get involved in this."

"Do something or I will," Ciel threatened, "Please…"

Relana looked from Ciel to the gallows, utterly confused. The plea was so unlike him, so alien that it made her second guess her own handle on the situation. Ciel was polite, but he was not someone who indulged others with such niceties, especially not in dire situations.

Her heart skipped a beat as she felt him gathering power about him, focusing to begin a spell. The hairs on the arms stood on end as she felt the small surge of readiness, that hesitant vacuum of strength before the outward burst. She grabbed his arm to diffuse it, "Wait, don't do anything. You don't know how to do anything without making it obvious. I'll do it."

Ciel pulled his arm away, nodding once in agreement. He had won the argument, he would get the answers he wanted so badly and he would be able to repay Grell for his help. Another time, in another life he would have enjoyed watching him dangle for murdering his aunt and sending him on a wild chase through the dark streets of London's underbelly. But things were different now, he was different. Life had a new meaning to him, even if it was Grell Sutcliff's.

"Please, please, please… please… Oh God please… no… please…" Grell muttered against the suffocating fabric. His composure was gone. Every ounce of his strength was devoted to standing and begging as hot tears streamed down his cheeks, lost in the fabric against his face, "Oh please… P-please no..."

He heard the creak of the lever, ready to be pulled. The man who had announced them rang out over the silent crowd, giving them a final parting, "May God have mercy on your souls!"

There was a wooden clunk as the lever was thrown and Grell couldn't help but yell as he felt the floor give out from beneath his feet. There was the short vertigo of the drop, followed by the blinding pain of the noose constricting around his neck. It cut off his final plea, crushing his throat with the amazing force of his own body weight. His neck hadn't broken, which was what he expected, but unconsciousness was still a ways off.

De dangled helplessly, legs kicking at the air in the vain hope of finding something to stand on, something to save him. He gurgled and choked as his lungs fought for air, burning in his chest powerlessly. No one had saved him, no one had come to do anything more than watch him go. He was still thankful that they were there, but his damaged heart had still hoped someone had saved him from himself.


	5. Chapter 5: Forget Me Nots

AUTHOR'S NOTE: AX 2010 and SDCCI is over and I had quite a bit of fun. Thank you all for being patient with the updates! After re-reading chapter 4 I have come to the conclusion that I need to be more conscientious about my own editing. There was some dialog which was redundant… Some description that used its own descriptors more than once somber men with somber expressions (yeah… badness)… and there were even a couple words that ended up with the wrong letters… like De instead of He. So, I apologize for being in such a rush. Honestly I don't see some of these things until it's posted and I just groan and promise that I'm going to go back and fix it. Of course… most of you have already read it by that point, so the suffering is already suffered. Lol.

What I'm saying is, thank you for sticking by me guys. You are the very best readership around. I adore you all.

The Mortal Coil: Chapter 5

Ron felt his stomach lurch as he watched Grell fall through the hatch with the other criminals, the adrenaline spiked vertigo forcing him to look away in shame. He looked at the cobbled ground and quickly realized it did little to quell his discomfort. He felt like the child watching in silence as his peers threw stones at an unfortunate bird or frog, laughing at the animal's panic and pain with sadistic glee, saying and doing nothing to stop it. The inaction inevitably giving silent approval to the act, cowardice and perhaps self preservation leading ultimately to the death of the helpless animal. He knew Grell had been caught up in something he could not control, swept along the current with a navigator which had not cared if he was smashed among the treacherous rocks beneath the foamy surface. If Ron ever saw Sebastian again, the demon would pay with his blood. Not that it mattered, Grell would already have paid the ultimate price for his naivety.

"This is wrong," He muttered, turning to William sharply. "You know this is wrong. We should be hunting the demon."

William kept his focus ahead as he took a gloved hand and pushed the bridge of his spectacles against his a lake heron he stood painfully still save for the slow and careful repositioning of those glasses. seemingly unaffected by the barbaric execution in his quiet reserve. The reality, hidden though it was, was in painful opposition to his demeanor. He felt stifled in his clothes, muscles hot and tense in anger, afraid that any movement would give him away, that the thin facade of composure would crumble and his helplessness would be revealed. He couldn't let Ron see that. He was supposed to be in control and stand by the decision of the council even though every fiber of his being wanted to rebel and stand up for what he truly believed. Though the grounds for punishment had been evident and clear, Grell was a victim of his own heart, caught in the flame of his own flight of fancy.

Ron was right, at least essentially. During the investigation of Grell's crimes it had come to light that every act; deliberate and unintended, hinged upon the demon, Sebastian Michaelis. That infernal, cold blooded creature had brought about Grell's downfall with meticulous cruelty and calculation. Had William known how far the man could get his hooks in one of his own reapers, he would have killed him at their first meeting. The oversight was so negligent. Even after, had he gotten to Grell before word had reached their superiors, he would have snuffed the entire situation out with careful alterations to the soul log and the destruction of the demon. Unfortunately Grell had dug himself too deep and taken far too long to return to The Ministry for him to do anything.

Relana began the quiet incantation of her spell, weaving her will around the words with expert skill. The point of each phrase was to make the transition as flawless as possible with the slight of hand little more than a skip in time for onlookers. They would barely notice anything at all. It was not a simple task, but one she had performed dozens of times over the course of her rather long life, using it on more than one occasion to escape her own demise and to aid in the escape of others.

Relana felt her heart lurch as the gallows dropped, her line of sight following the short plummet of her target and his abrupt halt. Her time was up; there was no time to cast, no time to think.

She grabbed at her servant, making eye contact with the dark haired woman momentarily as she spoke. The servant looked down at her passively, blue eyes neither surprised nor curious at her mistress' behavior. It was passive dismissal, waiting for whatever would happen next as her gaze traveled from the witch to the man dangling in the gallows. She tilted her head, more curious about that than anything else.

"I'm sorry," Relana growled, squeezing her servant's arm until the girl literally seemed to shatter into silvery dust. It hung suspended for a moment, filling her clothes until it was as if it realized gravity had a hold upon it, showering down, clothes collapsing inward. If anyone had been paying attention to the strange display, their interest was quickly given back to the gallows as a feral cat cry rang out loudly over the crowd. Relana's sight riveted back to the execution as well, her tense stance relaxing visibly at her success.

"What in the name of…" William started, taking quick strides through the crowd in an effort to get closer and see more clearly. Rob followed after, green eyes wide in shock at the display. Where Grell had hung was now occupied by little more than a fury of claws and fur, cloaked in the death cowl's noose. It hissed and scratched, twisted and rolled in absolute indignation as its neck was caught in the rope.

Everyone stood dumbstruck by the sight, mouths agape at the oddity of it. Even the executioner felt a cold shiver of unrest at the jet black feline angrily trying to escape the constricted hood.

"It's a cat," someone said to the person standing beside, "Where did it come from?"

More murmurs of conjecture began, a dull hum of voices growing louder as everything else began to seem unimportant and mundane in comparison, "A cat, why a cat? Where is the man?"

William pushed through the crowd, barely noticed even as he shoved people aside and shouldered forward. Grell was gone and in his place was a cat of all things. As he neared the front there was no mistaking it. The shining black fur, the sleek body, the loud yowls of displeasure and threatening hisses to anyone who would have dared touch it rang out true. What did it mean?

Relana looked at the pile of clothes, sighing in heavy relief the man now curled in a fetal position at her feet. The clothes obviously didn't fit, but with his slim, malnourished frame it didn't make much of a difference. They would act as a decent disguise along with his androgyny until they were safely away.

Ciel motioned to the remaining servant silently to pick the unconscious reaper up, keeping his face stern and serious. Without turning to Relana he said, "I would have been more discreet."

Relana shrugged, hiding prettily behind her fan, "Perhaps, but I ran out of time. Now let's get going before-"

"Witchcraft!", a man called from the crowd, pointing an accusing finger at the struggling cat, "It's a witch!"

The new battle cry spread through the crowd quickly, "A witch, a witch!"

"Before that…" Relana muttered, turning on heel without another thought. Her pace was unhurried but carried with it an air of purpose. That purpose being to get out of the streets as quickly as she was able. She glanced back over her shoulder, slowing her pace further as she realized Ciel was indeed following with the servant and unconscious cargo in tow.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd as the cat finally freed itself, scampering off the gallows in a panic and fleeing through the throng of people that parted as it ran by.

AUTHOR'S FOOTNOTE: I am again sorry that this update has taken so long and that this chapter is so short. I wanted to edit it more, but I think I should just post it and move forward. I'm not giong to be happy with it no matter what I do, lol. You all had waited long enough for it. I hope to update again VERY soon.


	6. Chapter 6: Who Dares to Wake

The Mortal Coil: 6

Sebastian stood tall and defiant before the Angel, mahogany eyes flashing crimson in the low light as he spoke. His usually expressive mouth was set in a thin, firm line, as unyielding as stone, "Absolutely not."

The angel surveyed this new development with only mild distaste, confident that in the end, he would get the defiant demon to eat his words and wash them down with a heavy dose of humility. He hadn't asked for much, if anything it was the least strenuous of the orders he had given the immortal servant in their short time together; though perhaps it might have been the most compromising.

The candle flames shivered in the dark as they watched the standoff, almost as if they could whisper amongst themselves and compare their personal thoughts. Their light bounced jaggedly off the walls and ceiling, glinting here and there on the golden adornments which gilded the room. They almost made it seem as if the entire room was shaking with their uneven, shifting glow.

The night beyond the warm confines of the bedroom was hushed with the approaching storm. Heavy clouds shrouded the night sky as thickly as the tension hanging between angel and demon, rumbling with uneasy thunder far above. It would rain before morning and with the first loosed drops would come flashes of angry lightning to illuminate the world in painful overexposure. Everything would come to light, everything would be bare and unprepared, out in the open for all to see.

"I see," Ash said coldly, shifting his position on the bed so that he could better see the demon standing at the foot, "You're actually telling me you won't do it."

It was a statement more than it was a question, laced with the light malice of disapproval. However there was no concern in his tone. Just as one watching the storm gather in its slow, creeping way, so the angel watched Sebastian's defiance hover and solidify. Panic or worry would do nothing to stop it, only careful planning and maneuvering would overtake the drawn battle line.

"That is exactly what I'm saying," Sebastian returned simply. He would not submit to such an act if he was not expressly told to, and Ash had not posed it as a direct order. So long as he didn't cross that threshold and word his desires in an exact and binding statement, Sebastian was free to defy him, "I refuse to serve you like that."

Ash's pale violet eyes slid up Sebastian's body like a pair of deadly vipers, twining around him as they drank in his physicality. Their appraisal was unmistakably wanton, the desires plain for anyone to see. They saw how the light flickered across the demon's tall, lean form; how the black fabric of his clothes devoured the light at its most recessive points, leaving mystery. If they could, those eyes would have disrobed him where he stood. To cut or tear or burn his clothes, to have his uniform fall away and reveal the soft, pale contours of flesh beneath.

"No," Sebastian said again, turning on heel to leave before Ash wised up to his false refusal. He didn't like being stared at with such obvious longing, not from anyone, least of all from the angel. As long as he didn't actually order him, he could leave without consequence. One step towards the door, followed by another and another in calculated stride. He didn't want the other to know how uncomfortable he really was.

Ash sat up, locking his elbows straight as his eyes bore into Sebastian's back. The nerve of him to refuse was unimaginable, "Fine. Then I want you to bring me someone in your place."

Sebastian stopped at that, glancing back over his shoulder warily as he took in the new objective, "You know you won't find another like me."

"I am aware," he said darkly, "And what you bring to me will inevitably be broken before my fun is over. I just hope you tire of such placation and give yourself to me instead."

"Not likely," Sebastian muttered, an uncharacteristic glower clouding his refined features. He opened the bedroom door and left the angel to his perverse thoughts. He had been lucky to escape an actual order, though his mind was reeling with the prospect of his luck running out. Neither of them were mortal, so Ash's discovery of the true power he wielded over him could prove disastrous as well as long lasting. He needed to achieve the angel's goal quickly and be rid of the contract. Ash had far too many ideas… Too many desires…

* * *

He was warm, the first indication that he wasn't dead. He could feel his own chest rise and fall with the slow, even breaths of sleep, becoming deeper as consciousness fought for its foothold in his blurred mind; more indicators that he wasn't dead. Breathing was for the living, the truly alive and mortal. He was alive.

If there was any doubt concerning his condition, there was one final sign which left no doubt that he was still Earth bound and living; the horrible pains which swam up and down his body like cruel eels. His head pounded dully with each beat of his heart, growing more acute as wakefulness took him. It was like being in a vice while red hot blood poured from his ears in an unstoppable flow, killing him even as he was kept alive.

His throat was on fire, so dry and thirsty, bruised and crushed from the hangman's noose. The noose… The rope…

Grell's hand shot upward, gripping around his neck to survey the remembered damage of his execution. Almost immediately he regretted such hasty action, fingers loosening as they twitched from the acute pain of the open wound. He didn't need a mirror to tell him how bad it looked. The layers of gauze which had been loosely wrapped to keep it clean did little to disguise the deep trench in the flesh. The wide band of torn and burned skin where the rope had caught him was unmistakable, meant to hang him like a common criminal.

But that what he was, wasn't it? He had been tried, convicted, and in short order over the course of his sentence had wound up back in court to face new charges and punishment. He always assumed the human court system would be more lenient than its immortal counterpart at The Ministry, but that had been far from the case. Everything had been such a double edged sword…

Grell opened his eyes to the grey light of early morning, thoughts little more than a scattered mess of emotional spikes and disjointed images. He knew he should have been dead. He recalled his own date and time, the means by which it would happen, everything. His fellow shinigami had come to watch, for support or punishment was unclear. He was glad they had come, but they hadn't moved to save him. He hadn't expected them to, but it would have made all the difference. Or had they, at the last moment? Where was he, anyway?

With a pained groan, Grell tilted his head to the side so that he could better see his surroundings. They looked oddly familiar, even to his confused mind. The bedding beneath him felt soft, the mattress of undeniably high quality. After his long captivity, one of the things which stood out was how clean it smelled, how fresh and comforting it was, wrapped around his emaciated body.

The décor was very refined, blues and greens working together over the upholstered chair in the corner and the small lounge at the foot of the bed. Dark wood with finely carved design was the motif of all the furnishings, velvets and finely woven fabrics everywhere. This was part of a manor house, he was sure of it. But why did it look familiar to him?

He put a hand to his forehead, pressing away the horrible ache which had settled in the back of his brain, crushing his will to stay in this new, wakeful state. As his fingertips barely brushed the edge of his hairline, he saw it; sitting on the vanity against the wall. It was a woman's brush set, with a mirror backed in silver and red velvet, an ivory comb with carnelian coral insets, a hair brush backed in matching red velvet, and a small glass ring box with a red velvet pillow to rest the jewelry upon. He knew the set very well and had been in charge of its care and presentation for almost a year as Madame Red's butler. It was one of the things he envied of hers, one of the few human trinkets he found fascinating, even alluring.

But this was not Madame's home. If it had been he would have reevaluated the situation and come to the inevitable and undeniable conclusion that he was dead and in Hell. Nothing said "Eternal Damnation" quite like spending an unspecified amount of "forever" with the woman you had fallen in and out of love with. Luckily for Grell, there was no other red in the bedroom. So the question remained; Where was he?

He lay there for an hour or more, hand coming to his throat to very hesitantly touch the wound, busying himself with the sharp bites of pain to ward off the increasingly disturbing questions which sailed through his thoughts. The canopy of his bed was a thick brocade of dark blue, dyed with hints of indigo and dotted with silver and gold stars. As he stared up at it, he thought it must be a representation of the night sky, hung over the bed in the recently popular "Japonisme" tradition. He had to admit he liked it better than the heavy weaves of more classical English design. They always ended up looking furry as time went on, with dust catching on them until even the color was unclear. Cleaning once a year was hardly enough, but taking them down more than once was an undertaking most households didn't want to bother with.

The gray of the day only intensified, with heavy clouds shrouding the sun from its rightful perch in the sky. At first the light got brighter, its white glow defiantly piercing through the clouds. But it was short lived and by mid-morning the swirling mass above had turned angry and dark. The wind began to rustle the leaves in the sullen oak beyond the window and there was the low growl of thunder far off. It was going to rain.

The corners of Grell's mouth turned downward as he felt his heart clench dully. He remembered the rain all too well. There were things attached to it he could no longer abide by or enjoy. What had once been the promise of things to come, in the aftermath of a horrible experience, had been nothing more than a lie in the end. A series of untruths leading to his ultimate downfall. He remembered the time spent in Sebastian's arms as he brought him down off that mountain in Romania. The apology beneath the massive tree and the kiss that followed after. He had been so foolish, so naive. Grell hated the rain.

* * *

Relana placed the pink tasseled bookmark in between the pages of her book, marking her stopping place as the first tremor of the storm rippled through her being. The purity of it was muddled with the rising unease in their guest, finally awake. She couldn't tell if it was the coming rain which brought the intense trepidation or if the former shinigami was really as angry and bitter as her senses indicated. Both were looming on the horizon of her mind, ready to spill over the flood gates.

She looked over at Ciel, watching as he slowly turned the pages of his book. Though he hadn't been much of a literary scholar before his ordeal, he had grown fond of it while on Relana's island. Information was a whole new variety of power and his continued discovery of its uses was quickly making reading one of his favorite activities. The other was, as to be expected, flying, "Our guest is awake, do you want to talk to him or shall I?"

Ciel turned the page again, glancing up from the book only momentarily before returning to its engrossing pages, "I'll follow you in a bit. I'd like to get through this chapter." He looked up again, meeting her gaze more intently, "Have you seen Sinah today?"

Relana placed her book on the small marble table in the front drawing room, shrugging at him noncommittally, "She wanted to retrieve the cat, I think. It didn't come home on its own yet and I think that upset her."

"Upset?" Ciel said, thoroughly unconvinced, "I didn't know she got upset."

"Oh yes," Relana replied, turning away, "She has the capacity, unlike her father."

Ciel stiffened at the mention of Sebastian, thoughts torn away from his task as his mind began to hum with all the questions he still had for the demon. He was like a lover, lost to the mistakes of the past but never quite forgotten enough to be remembered fondly. He still missed him, wanted him back, but was also strangely afraid of what those desires meant. Was it for the comfort of routine or something else?

* * *

The second growl of thunder sounded, still low and distant as the storm built somewhere offshore, pushed closer by the inland bound winds. The sky was as dark as dusk with an electric thickness in the atmosphere, though it was barely ten in the morning. Several minutes later, lighting flashed across the sky in a jagged line. Soon the elements would come together violently, with the wind howling in cadence to the clap of thunder and the electrical bursts lighting up the water laden clouds. And at their peak, everything below would be drowned in the crescendo, the note holding until all parts were spent and forced to retreat.

Relana walked up the wide staircase briskly, eager to see how Grell was doing. If she had still been in the Victorian fashions that disguised her origins in the London street, she would have had a much harder time. But she was back in the green silks of her home, twisted around her frame like Greek Goddess, with trappings of brown cotton beneath for warmth. She was more comfortable like that. It allowed her to move freely.

She opened the door to Grell's room quietly, peering around to make sure that he was indeed awake. If he wasn't, she didn't want to disturb him. He still had a lot of healing to do, despite the fact that he really needed food. She realized that despite Ciel's insistence that the man was a death god, as she had dressed his wounds and checked him over, he was definitely mortal in every way. She couldn't even feel the residuals of his immortal life on him, meaning whoever or whatever stripped him of his privileged state had done so with the severe intention of it being permanent.

Grell turned his head a little to face the door as it opened, green eyes shifting farther to minimize the pull on his neck. He expected to see William or Ron for some reason, or even to see Sebastian by a strange twist of fate. Of everyone he thought might have come to his aid, the woman in the doorway was not on the list. He recognized her long, dark hair and golden eyes as if they had parted ways mere hours before. She was at fault as far as he was concerned. This situation he found himself in, was her doing. She and her foolish demands, her selfish revenge against Sebastian. He swallowed thickly, pain lacing down his spine as he managed to clear his mouth. He parted his chapped lips, taking a small breath, "You..."


End file.
